


In the Way You Look

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Guns, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-08 10:29:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6851062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Porthos realizes Aramis likes to be praised.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Way You Look

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jlarinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jlarinda/gifts).



> Written for the prompt from JL for, "Porthos discovering that Aramis always looks at him expectantly whenever he does a good shot or wins a fight during training. Even in the battlefield. And/Or, how did Porthos realize Aramis had a massive praise kink."

**I.**  
“Nice shot.”

It’s a passing comment, something he threw out as he kept going, nodding his head to Aramis as he moves by. But Aramis whips his head around to grin at him. Hair falls in his eyes, but he hardly seems bothered. 

He slings his gun over his shoulder, grinning. “You think?” 

Porthos, not expecting his one comment to be invitation for conversation, pauses in some sort of quiet confusion. He’s newer to the musketeers, perhaps, but he’s had a good enough rapport with Aramis so far. The large grin he’s sending his way sends him off-kilter. Not that he thinks he’s done something wrong. But it’d just been a random, tossed comment. And now Aramis is grinning at him like he’s given him the best compliment in the world. 

“I’m sure you’re quite skilled, too,” Aramis says, in that way of saying that he thinks the opposite. Usually a barb like that would make Porthos bristle. Instead, he just snorts. 

“What, you want to compare notes?” 

Aramis’ grin widens. “I bet you I could hit the bull’s-eye three times in a row. If I’m right, buy me a drink.” 

The way he says it makes Porthos very sure he’s about to say goodbye to his purse. He agrees anyway. He doesn’t make the mistake again. 

 

**II.**  
“Did you see that shot I did earlier?” Aramis asks him, wiping some dirt from his cheek with a handkerchief. 

“What?” Porthos asks, scrubbing his face with his bandana. When he drops his hand away, Aramis is looking at him expectantly. “No,” he says, frowning. “Sorry? I was fighting.”

“Ah,” Aramis says, and seems to deflate. “Such a shame. It was quite impressive.”

“I’m sure,” Porthos says, frowning. Aramis leans forward, handkerchief raised as he wipes at Porthos’ cheeks for him, catches the stray blood still there.

“You’re not hurt, are you?” Aramis asks, softer now. 

“I’m fine,” Porthos tells him. “You?”

“Oh, I’m quite alright,” Aramis says, grinning. “When I have my pistol, no one can touch me. You should know that by now.”

Porthos laughs. “True. You’re a good shot.”

Aramis beams. 

 

**III.**  
Aramis shoots, hits the target, and turns to grin at Porthos immediately. Porthos lifts an eyebrow at him, half-way through a peach and only barely paying attention during the afternoon training. He already knows his marksman skills are a disgrace. He hardly needs to prove it, much less with Aramis nearby. 

Aramis grins wider. “Well?”

“Well, what?” Porthos asks, bites hard into the peach and licks at the juices as they slide over his fingertips.

“It’s a good shot,” Aramis points out. He’s looking at Porthos’ hand, though. His smile has taken on a different sort of tint. 

“You already know it is,” Porthos tells him, laughing. “I hardly need to say it.” 

Aramis pouts. He actually, legitimately pouts. Porthos is still trying to wrap his head around that as Aramis turns away with a huff, starts reloading his pistol. 

“Already know, he says,” Aramis mutters to himself, clearly displeased. Porthos snorts. Aramis gives him a thoroughly wounded look. Porthos knows he shouldn’t laugh. But he also can’t exactly help it, seeing such a display. It’s ridiculous.   
Porthos can’t help but laugh after ten minutes of this display. He knocks his shoulder hard against Aramis’, and waits for Aramis to look up at him, utterly betrayed. 

“Would you stop moping?” he teases. He’s finished his peach and rolls the pit along his fingertips absently. 

“I am not moping,” Aramis sniffs. “Far be it from me to want acknowledgement of my accomplishments from dear friends.” 

“That what it is?” Porthos asks with a laugh. 

“I hardly see you making such shots,” Aramis protests. 

“Alright, alright,” Porthos says, and holds up the pit. “Hit this, then.”

And then he throws it. Aramis scrambles for half a second before he aims, fires, and the pit shatters into hundreds of pieces. Porthos ducks his head to keep from getting hit by the unexpected detritus. He’s laughing.

Aramis looks at him expectantly, eyebrows raised. 

Porthos grins. “Alright. Nice shot.” 

“Was that so hard?” Aramis sniffs, but looks unreasonably pleased. 

 

**IV.**  
It was inevitable, Porthos thinks, that he would find himself in this spot. Should have been inevitable from the first day, when Aramis turned his grin towards him. That first day when Aramis slid a hand along his shoulder, lingered too long, looked at him as if he were already something precious and worthwhile. He should have known that there would come a night when Aramis would be looking at him, soft glow in his eyes from the candlelight, lips quirked into a smile. He should have known there would come a night when Aramis would lean in and kiss him – slow and gentle and surreal. A time when Porthos’ breath would hitch and he’d think – this is happening, this is not a dream. A cliché, but one unexpected for him. He cups Aramis’ face in that moment, kisses him back. Because of course he does. 

The air between them smells like melon. Perhaps, for once, it is Porthos’ turn to make the shot, to aim and fire. He’s only glad he didn’t miss. Only glad that Aramis’ response is to laugh, to coo, to soak himself in bits of melon, still stuck in his hair. 

And then, clothes on the floor, Aramis with his back pressed to the bed, looking up at him. Porthos, glancing around as if in habit – checking the lock on the door, the latch of the window. Aramis’ hand on his cheek, guiding his face back to look at him. 

“Tell me I’m good,” Aramis gasps out, grabbing to Porthos’ shoulders, arching his back up. Porthos would answer, except Aramis is already leaning in and kissing him, somewhat desperately. Fingers in his hair, tugging hard, pulling him in close. He whimpers out against Porthos’ mouth and Porthos does his best to kiss him back, kiss him breathless.

“You’re good,” Porthos tells him once they break apart, Porthos pressing his forehead to Aramis’. 

Aramis grins at him, breathing harsh, brushing his nose against Porthos’. His fingers slide through his hair, over his jaw, his chin, down his neck. 

“Watch me,” Aramis tells him and Porthos doesn’t look away from him after that, keeps his eyes on him. Aramis arches, preens, tips his head forward against the attention. Porthos knows he’ll never look away again.

He ducks his head, kisses his neck, whispers out filthy promises – and the praise. It comes to him in waves and with each word, there is a whimper from Aramis, a shiver down his spine, a twist of his hips. 

“You’re good. You’re so good,” he tells him and Aramis wraps his legs around him and holds tight. 

 

**V.**  
Porthos digs his elbow hard into the gut of the man holding him. He grunts, tries to twist away. The man falls before Porthos hears the shot ring out – looks up to see Aramis duck behind a crate. The grip around his neck loosens and the man falls in a blood heap. Porthos runs, ducks beneath cover.

Aramis is by his side instantly, touches his cheek. “Are you hurt?” 

Porthos has the expected bumps and bruises, but he shakes his head. “You didn’t hit me.” 

Aramis nods, worry etched into his eyes, the corners of his eyes crinkling in distress. He hasn’t moved his hand from Porthos’ cheek. They’re forgetting themselves. 

But Porthos grins at him. Says, “Nice shot, by the way.” 

And watches Aramis’ expression clear. Then sees him smile. Porthos leans into the touch, because he can, before he turns his head and scrambles to reload his own weapon. They’re in the middle of a fight. They’ll have to wait, for now.

When he looks again, Aramis is still grinning – suddenly lighter again, to have Porthos by his side. Because of course he does. Porthos would laugh, if there still weren’t men left to kill before the day is out. 

Aramis aims his weapon, shoots, and hits the mark.

**Author's Note:**

> [My tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/), as always.


End file.
